


War is Another Day

by MarsDiogenes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Draco Malfoy, Boys Being Boys, Childhood Trauma, Draco Malfoy is a Little Shit, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Rituals, Slytherins Being Slytherins, and by that i mean casually planning world domination for the sake of their traumatised friends, because they were all kids dammit, but he's great i promise, but this fic ain't out to hurt you, by which i mean i made it up as i went along, is Lucius a good father?, it's harry, mirror mirror on the wall who is the most traumatised of them all, no beta we die like sirius black, to borrow a tag from my favourite fic ever, you know what im gonna say not really on this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22115044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsDiogenes/pseuds/MarsDiogenes
Summary: Harry Potter wakes up on his eighteenth birthday and drags himself to his bathroom sink.He brushes his teeth, bends to spit, and stretches his shoulders to hear the bones pop into place. He then stops, mid-straighten, blinking at the round bathroom mirror.“Huh,” Harry says, as cracks begin to appear and web across the surface of his mirror. “This is a problem.”Harry goes downstairs to make some tea.orHarry is trying to spend his eighth year at Hogwarts vehemently denying that he needs to solve his issues, while Luna tries to get him to solve them like he solved his last big problem; with the power oflove.Meanwhile, Draco is being the most well adjusted person in this whole situation, surprisingly.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 110
Kudos: 233





	1. Saying goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Happiest of Birthdays to the bestest of friends. Harmony, babe, this grew so big so fast beyond what you first asked me for that I kinda hate you for it a little because it's all I can think about.
> 
> Thank you for the opportunity and I hope you like this because there's gonna be at least six chapters more ahahahahahahahahahah *cries*

It starts like this.

Harry Potter wakes up, eighteen years old, with joints that ache in the rain, and summons his glasses.

No, that’s not quite right.

It starts with this.

Harry Potter wakes up on his eighteenth birthday and drags himself to his bathroom sink.

He brushes his teeth, bends to spit, and stretches his shoulders to hear the bones pop into place. He then stops, mid-straighten, blinking at the round bathroom mirror.

The mouth, _his_ mouth, on the reflection droops, lips pulling impossibly low like it is melting off his face. Blood drips from the ends like candlewax onto the basin.

He looks down to check and sees only white porcelain.

“Huh,” Harry says, as cracks begin to appear and web across the surface of his mirror. “This is a problem.”

Harry goes downstairs to make some tea.

///

If you ask Draco, everything can be traced back to the moment he turned sixteen and realised that his chances of turning seventeen was fading with every raspy inhale that Voldemort took in through his slitted nostrils.

The Dark Lord knew his weaknesses. Even if he had succeeded at killing the most powerful, well-respected, and _visible_ figures of Wizarding society, there was nothing stopping the Dark Lord from holding his parents lives over his head for whatever other equally suicidal task may later come up.

Thus, Draco concludes that:

  1. As long as the Dark Lord lives, he would never be free to take up his duties as a Malfoy heir once he is of age (if he even reaches the age of majority).
  2. If Draco dies, his parents would too. The Dark Lord will see no use for them.
  3. If Draco dies, he would be taking not only the Malfoy family _and_ the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black with him (since neither his Aunt Bella nor cousin Sirius had recognised heirs), but also most likely a good chunk of Wizarding Britain.



See, Lucius Malfoy had not been idle in the years between his lord’s fall and return from the grave.

The Malfoy family had always had a knack for investing in businesses that would prove to be highly lucrative. They started as moneyed merchants, and over their five-hundred-year history, they’ve done what they do best. They bought shares. They networked. They funded just enough philanthropic projects to draw the _right_ kind of attention, all the time keeping their noses on the ground for any new potentially profitable ventures. The businesses privileged enough to receive their patronage find themselves suddenly enfolded within a highly exclusive – and well-paying – network of merchants, producers, manufacturers, and customers. There, they would find that the social currency granted to them by the Malfoy’s patronage is worth much, much more than the financial success their attention initially garnered.

Draco’s father is nothing if not a quintessential Malfoy. Having been pardoned on a technicality, he managed to gain a foothold in the ministry in less than five years through subtle manipulation of his connections.

Draco’s mother in some ways, is even better at it than Lucius. Narcissa kept the machinery of the Malfoy businesses working while Lucius greased the cogs. As a result, now sixty-eight percent of the businesses in Knockturn Alley, a good twenty-three percent of the ones in Diagon, and a solid _eighteen_ percent of businesses across the British Isles are currently entangled within Malfoy affairs and Malfoy money. A not inconsiderable number of French businesses are also still affiliated with the Malfoys, despite them having mostly pulled out of the country several generations ago.

And Draco is their only heir.

The Black family connection that Narcissa brought into her marriage set Draco to inherit not only the Malfoy businesses and shares, but also the legitimisation of an English Noble house. Draco’s sphere of influence in England and abroad is projected to be even wider than his parents, and he’d been trained accordingly since birth and walked with the confidence afforded him by his inheritance.

Malfoy money and Black status.

 _What a waste_ , he had thought, watching his father grovel on his hands and knees in front of a barefooted Dark Lord while promising his son’s loyal service as recompense for his failings. _All that noble breeding, all that work._

All that talk about ushering in a new era of magic supremacy. Draco had realised he probably wouldn’t even live to see it.

_Such a waste._

Yes.

This is where it starts.

///

Returning to Hogwarts is nothing at all like what Harry had thought it would be.

He knew it wouldn’t be the same, with Voldemort dead and his friends off on a quest to find Hermione’s parents. But he hadn’t expected it to feel _new_ , like he was a first year stepping onto the Hogwarts Express for the first time.

Maybe it was because Ron and Hermione accompanied him to King’s Cross, having delayed their portkey to Melbourne, Australia to see him off. He feels oddly like a child being dropped off at school by his parents – which was a disturbing thought _let’s never think of them like that again_ – but it is a contrast to how the first time went, with only him on the platform, scared and alone.

“Are you sure about this, Harry,” Hermione asks, fiddling with her collar. “You wouldn’t be intruding, I promise.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “Thanks, ‘mione but I’m sure. I just… want to take a year off. Catch up on all the schoolwork I missed.”

At that point Hermione begun casting glances at the Hogwarts Express as if she had half a mind to jump on it herself. Ron, seeing this, rather quickly intervenes. “’Mione the portkey’s leaving soon. We’d better say bye to Harry quick.”

She pouts slightly, but nods, pulling Harry into a tight hug. “We’ll miss you, but we understand that you need this. And no one deserves a slice of peace than you do.”

An awkward cough and a resigned sigh. Then Harry feels Ron join the embrace from his side. “Just stay safe, mate. Any trouble and you write us, hear? We’ll come straight back, even if I have to drag ‘mione away from a library.”

Harry chokes out a laugh that ended up sounding more like a sob into Hermione’s curls. Both of his friends tighten their arms around him. “It’s going to feel so strange being at Hogwarts without you two. I’ll be writing you every day. You’ll be sick of me.”

Ron growls, all awkwardness lost as he uses his height advantage to press both Harry and Hermione into his chest. “ _No_. Never.”

“We love you, Harry. So much. We’ll be thinking of you the entire time.”

And then they find themselves, all three of them, sobbing like the first years saying goodbye to their parents and holding each other in the middle of the platform, until the train’s piercing whistle told them that it was time to go.

Harry spits out a mouthful of Hermione’s hair and reluctantly pulls away from the embrace to give them both a watery smile. “Good luck. I love you both,” he says as he flicks a wand at his feather-light luggage, still sniffling. “But don’t actually think of me the entire time. We don’t have that kind of relationship, no matter what Rita Skeeter says.”

Ron laughs and Hermione slaps him on the arm. “Oh, get on the train, you.” She tries to sound stern but couldn’t fight the smile on her lips. “And write us when you get settled in for the night.”

He flicks a salute at her and turns to walk onto the train, afraid that if he looks back, he’ll never leave. He rides that feeling of newness as he picks a seat and stows his luggage, helping a few starstruck younger students with their lightening charms along the way.

He waves goodbye through the window as the train pulls out of the station, watching Ron and Hermione shrink into the distance.

And he takes special care not to glance at his reflection on the glass pane.


	2. The kids aren't alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snakes make a commotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleasantly surprised by how well this has been received. Thank you so much for your kind words! As soon as I read them I was so inspired and that's why this chapter came out so quickly.

For Draco, walking through King’s Cross feels like a victory march.

They all walk in together, robes billowing, and chins held high. Pansy tosses her hair, throwing the occasional disdainful look over her shoulder, and as usual, every eye was drawn to their entrance.

It's not the same as before the war, of course. Before, people looked at them with wary awe. Or jealousy. Nowadays if they weren’t hissing or sneering, they ushered their children away, wary and fearful.

Which, after some thought, amounts to the same thing, really.

Still, they all felt their spines stiffen with tension as they landed on Platform 9 and ¾. They purposefully arrived a little late to avoid the biggest – and nerviest – crowds. It was safer that way.

Not that they couldn’t handle themselves. Greg, broad shouldered and _big_ , is physically imposing enough that most people would think twice before causing trouble. Both Pansy and Blaise, though not as immediately threatening, have a look about them that has even the most daring criminals of Knockturn deeming them not worth the trouble despite their obvious wealth.

And Draco? Well.

If one didn’t know him by reputation – his distinct colouring gives him away as a Malfoy rather quickly – a look into his steely eyes and most will hesitate.

It’s not that he looks dangerous per se, although he _is_ (his casting is precise and his reflexes seeker-honed. Aunt Bellatrix had also trained him out off hesitating. Painfully.). It’s more in the confident way he holds himself, the complete assurance that nothing they do would touch him.

And the challenge in his eyes, bidding them to try anyway. Those that take him up on it regret their decision quickly. The war was a hard teacher, but Draco is a _very_ good student.

Despite all that, it was nonetheless dangerous to be on the Platform so blatantly. Most Slytherins chose to travel to Hogwarts by floo this year, if they were returning at all. With parents and friends in Azkaban, and a crowd full of victims awaiting a train that takes them right back to the barely cleared battlegrounds, not many were willing to risk having their backs to so many vengeful wands.

But Theo had asked them to. “I remember how I felt, that first time,” he’d said when Draco visited him in prison, with a look in his eyes that he hadn’t realised was missing in the last three years. “How scared I was. How _excited_ I was.”

The thought of it had transformed Theo’s face and for a moment, it was as if the two of them were sitting across from each other in the Great Hall, eleven years old again. Both of them, _all_ of them, free.

Theo’s eyes glared defiantly out from under his overgrown fringe, chains rattling lightly around his wrists as he leaned closer. “Don’t let them take that away.”

The thought had appealed to him. Draco had always had a contrarian side that made him reluctant to give in to other people’s expectations. He finds that after the war it became easier and easier to let that side of him speak. After all, what good was a dead Dark Lord if he was still forced to bow his head?

But he also doesn’t have to be stupid about it.

So Draco automatically takes point position as they walk through the diminished crowd, his friends falling into place behind him. Blaise, the strongest caster, watches their flank with feigned casualness, eyes roving around the family groups as if bored. They arrange themselves around little eleven-year-old Antonius Nott, floating his bags along with theirs. He had insisted before they left that he was too big to hold their hands, but had still clutched a handful of Draco’s robes all the way to the platform.

Draco thinks it’s cute, how determinedly he is now holding that tiny pointed chin of his up with a straightened spine. Merlin knows where Anton learnt that, since all the time Draco has known Theo, he’d walked with a tired slouch.

It drove Theodotus Nott mad, not that the elder Nott needed the catalyst. He had always been a special brand of crazy, even amongst the absolute lunatics that the Dark Lord had attracted to his side, especially towards the end. Lucius had never let him go alone to the Nott estate, always insisting that Theo come stay at the Manor instead if the two boys wanted to see each other.

It really is a wonder how little Anton turned out so adorable, with a sadistic Death Eater as a father and a twitchy (also a Death Eater) older brother like Theo.

They don’t linger on the platform to wait for their other friends, finding their carriage quickly to settle in. Draco hustles Anton away to find some younger children that he would be safe with while the rest stow away their luggage. It’s also a good opportunity to scope out his allies. He keeps a hand on Anton’s back as they walk, nodding at the odd Slytherin or otherwise affiliated student as they pass.

The usual back-to-school buzz seems muted this year. Understandable, Draco thinks, considering the circumstances. They all whisper to each other, eyes darting around and smiles strained.

But Anton wouldn’t know the difference. Draco glances down at him. Safely on the train, Anton looks nervous, fingers knotting into the wool of his jumper. Normally, Draco would wait for him to initiate before addressing the situation, but Theo had warned him about his little brother’s anxiety attacks and how he works himself into a state if left alone to spiral.

He looks around for a quiet corner, nodding at Lovegood absently as they pass her compartment. No place is ideal, but he settles for a spot against the wall, positioning them so he won’t have his back to people coming and going around the carriages. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

Anton bites his lip. “Draco, what if they’re mean?”

“Who?”

The little boy shrugs. “I don’t know. Everyone. Theo said they might be. What if they are?” He looks up, and – _Salazar_ , was Draco ever that small and pitiful?

“What did Theo tell you to do?”

“Hex them quick then run away.”

“You should do that.”

“But I don’t know any good hexes! Or quick ones!”

“Then we’ll teach you,” Draco says, crouching down. “If you need help hexing your enemies you can come find us, though it’s best that you learn how to yourself so that when we leave, you won’t be defenceless.”

Anton nods, slowly, casting his eyes down. “I don’t like hexes. I don’t like hurting people.” He shifts on his feet, then whispers, “Dad says it makes me weak.”

Draco wants to scoff. _Weak._ He’d seen Anton during the war walk up to his mad father, who had been in a rage after losing his quarry when even Lucius’ cool logic couldn’t calm him. The boy had been shaking all over, and yet his voice was clear, telling him to stop, to “please have a rest, dad”. He remembers feeling Theo beside him, standing on sheer willpower alone, remembers him stiffen all over and hold his breath, wand in hand. Thank Merlin for Narcissa Malfoy who had drawn the elder Nott’s attention away from the boys and back towards her husband. _Ten years old_ and he’d made every adult in that room stop in their tracks.

Theodotus Nott is a fool, and Draco hopes he rots in Azkaban.

“Sometimes a hex is necessary. But if you’re smart, and I know you are, you’ll have other options.”

Anton blinks. “Like what?”

“Like finding a professor.” At his sceptical look, Draco laughs and ruffles his hair. “You’re small and cute. Just cry and run up to a teacher and I’ll bet they’ll be falling all over themselves to help you.”

“Oh,” Anton suddenly looks calculating and Draco feels a simultaneous burst of pride and apprehension. “I think I understand, Draco. I just have to think creatively.”

“Yes, exactly.”

And yet, he feels a shiver run down his spine as Anton brightens with smile. “Thank you, Draco!”

What has he done? 

///

Draco slumps back into his compartment after dropping Anton with a few other first years. When he had left, the boy had already been making fast friends with what looked like a Selwyn, bonding over their identical jumpers, of all things.

“So,” he says as he throws himself into the seat beside Blaise. “I think we’d better shore up our investment portfolios, don’t you think? Who knows when the next dictator will come marching!”

Blaise, nonchalant as ever, flips a page of his magazine. “Little Antonius told you he has big dreams, did he?”

Draco tosses his head. “He didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t teach him anything. I still have plausible deniability.”

Pansy snorts. “Speaking of being plausibly in denial, the word around is that Potter’s holding court in the rear carriage,” she says from where she’s reclined against the window, legs up on Greg’s lap.

“Of course,” huffs Draco, mood instantly soured. “That arrogant toe-rag.”

“Oh yes. How dare he,” Blaise drawls. “It’s not as if he’d saved thousands of people from certain death or anything. It’s not like he defeated the strongest wizard in probably the world barely six months ago or anything.”

Draco scoffs, flicking his hand as if he’s physically batting the topic away. “Whatever. We have more important things to discuss than what Potter’s wearing this afternoon.”

Pansy sits up and gasps, theatrically, with an expression that Draco does not care for at all. “More important things than what Potter’s wearing? Why, Draco! You didn’t tell us you’d finally reached puberty! Our late bloomer, grown up at last!” She caps it all off by dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her sleeves.

“Yes, Pansy. I’m so glad that our wait is finally over. He might’ve missed a few important developmental milestones but,” Blaise pauses, hiding his grin in Draco’s hair as he pulls him close by the shoulders. “Our boy may just have a chance of leading a normal life! I say we celebrate.”

“Why do I bother with having friends if they’re all just going to betray me at the earliest opportunity.” He turns to Greg, sitting on the other bench. “Well? Do you have anything to say about this, or can we move on to actual important things that need discussing, like say, how our teachers and peers are likely to attempt to assassinate us before NEWTS, or what to do if Anton decides he wants to be the next Dark Lord?”

Greg thinks for a moment, nodding slowly. “I get what you’re saying, Draco. That stuff is important,” he starts, face so guileless that Draco doesn’t see it coming until it’s too late. “But you and Potter not dicking is pretty big news.”

Draco, Pansy, and Blaise all choke.

Greg tilts his head. “Did I say it wrong? Isn’t that what you called it, Pansy? Dicking?”

“Dick- _measuring_ , Greg.”

“Oh, right.”

“I hate you all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anton: Draco, I'm scared  
> Draco: Hi scared, I'm dad.  
> Draco: Because your real dad is trash.  
> Draco: I'm your dad now.
> 
> I honestly did not expect to fall in love with baby Nott but he's so cute. I didn't even think Theo was gonna be in this.
> 
> Don't worry guys, next chapter is all Harry I promise. And we'll get a move on with the plot.  
> Still, let me know what you liked! As proven, I thrive on the validation.


	3. Train rides home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry thinks Draco has something up his sleeves.
> 
> Everyone sighs.
> 
> *Edit: 06/02/2020  
> Added a handful of lines towards the end. It really needed it and it was bothering me.

It takes a moment. Harry sits in an empty compartment for just long enough to consider pulling out his textbooks before the door clatters open. Then it seems like all of Gryffindor house rushes in to say hello with handshakes and hearty slaps on the back. Some students from the other houses try to come in too, and the commotion has them blocking the corridors until the witch manning the snack-trolley makes irritated sounds at all of them.

Eventually, the crowd disperses, shouting promises to catch up later over their shoulders. The trolley-lady presses a few pumpkin pasties into his hand as she passes, thanking him with tears in her eyes. Harry’s glad that she moves on quickly, leaving Harry and a handful of friends in his claimed compartment. He hasn’t gotten any better at handling people thanking him for what happened over the summer.

He had mostly avoided leaving Grimmauld Place, sleeping the day away when he could in between trips to the Ministry to attend the countless war trials. There are some still to happen and the schedule is full until December.

His presence at them mostly serves as a token reminder of the war’s end, and the number he has to actually attend has been greatly reduced once Kingsley heard that he was returning to Hogwarts. It’s not like he can say he had witnessed much anyway, since he spent a fair chunk of the last year tripping over himself in the woods and avoiding places where there were people.

But him being there helps. Lots of witnesses are more willing to speak up when they see him in the front row, a reminder that their tormentors are not as untouchable as they had seemed.

A reminder that justice is being served.

Harry doesn’t much like being a figurehead for justice. More and more, the ambiguous cases had him leaving the Ministry wanting to peel his skin off. The ones who were marked against their will. The ones who weren’t marked but did horrible things. The ones too young to know any better.

Hearing what happened to everyone when he was busy hunting horcruxes, hearing that all the people who were suffering things he couldn’t have imagined had been waiting for him to _save_ them all, left him feeling scooped out, just a thin, papery shell. He would find himself after a long and confusing day of trials back at Grimmauld scrubbing the kitchen floor clean.

There was nothing simpler than a rag and a bucket of soapy water. Harry would clean the house, top to bottom, over and over, until his hands were raw. He had kept the windows shut so the dust would accumulate more quickly and give him more surfaces that needed cleaning.

It took a month of this before Ron and Hermione had forcefully moved in. Hermione had taken over the library and Ron the kitchen, _both_ of them chivvying him out of the house into the garden with a broom in hand.

Sometimes he’d go for a flight, cruising aimlessly above the clouds or idly racing passing birds. Other times, when he felt too jittery to sit on the broom, he’d roll up his sleeves and dig out the weeds.

And every time, Harry would walk back into Grimmauld Place as the sun sets, hanging up his broom or shedding muddy boots. He’d sit in the overstuffed armchair by the fireplace with the sounds of Hermione pacing upstairs or Ron’s determined clattering in getting dinner ready harmonise with the house’s creaking.

 _God_ , he thinks. _I miss them so much already_ , and immediately feels bad, because Luna is sitting right next to him, humming as she flicks through her magazine. Neville and Seamus are here too, catching up, along with Lavender and Parvati.

It feels like forever since he’d last seen them, even if it only really has been a couple of months at most. He’s glad that they’re here, really. But he knows how Ron and Hermione breathe, how they move in a confined space like this, and little things, like having to dodge out of the way awkwardly as Lavender and Parvati shuffle past him to go meet Ginny in another compartment, keeps throwing him off guard.

Maybe he’s just not used to _people_ anymore. He doesn’t know how to stand, where to put his hands. He resorts to sitting in the corner with an absent smile, staring out into the passing countryside and occasionally joining the conversation when his name is mentioned.

He doesn’t know how long he spends doing that before he hears Seamus sigh heavily.

“C’mon Harry. You look like you’re on the train to Azkaban!”

Harry pulls his eyes away from the window, hearing the tinge of concern underneath the exasperation in Seamus’ voice. He’s just in time to see Neville nudge Seamus with an elbow.

“Leave off. He deserves the peace and quiet.”

“Right, not arguin’ that. But he doesn’t have to do it with that look on his face. Look at him! Everyone’ll think we lost the war,” says Seamus, shoving him right back. He has to do it with his shoulder to get Neville to even feel it. No one knows what happened to Neville to get him so _big_ , but if anyone manages to figure out how to sell it, they’d make millions.

Harry lets out an amused sound. “Sorry my face is bothering you, I guess.”

Seamus nods, satisfied. “So you should be. Say, what about-“

He cuts himself off as a flash of blond hair passes the door to their compartment. They all glance to see what caught his attention and one by one, straighten in their seats.

“Was that Malfoy,” Seamus says, his voice low with something that makes Harry’s fingers twitch towards his wand.

The air inside the compartment feels suddenly tense. Dean’s absence feels heavy, and Seamus looks like he’s suddenly remembering why. Neville’s eyes flick from him to the door, as if measuring the distance.

“Oh, Draco!” Luna’s voice rings into the space in between them all like a bell. The boys all whip their heads to face her, shaking their heads as if breaking free from a spell. “I’d hoped he’d come and say hello.”

They all blink in unison.

“ _Why,_ ” says Neville, sounding choked.

Luna shrugs, turning back to her magazine. “He’s nice.”

Seamus splutters. “ _Nice._ Ok. Sure.”

Meanwhile, Harry is silently having a crisis in his corner. “I didn’t know Malfoy was coming back this year,” he manages.

“He shouldn’t have,” Seamus growls. “I can’t believe he got out of Azkaban, with what he did.”

Neville sighs. They’ve had this conversation before, during the Malfoy family’s trials in June. It seemed like everyone in Wizarding Britain had been there. The radio even broadcasted it. “He served his sentence.”

“Yeah, three months of it. Bastard deserves more than a slap on the wrist.”

“Three months with the dementors is a hell of a lot more than a slap on the wrist,” says Harry, staring with distant eyes into the corridor.

“But still less than he deserves,” Seamus bites out, fists clenched. “What he did- they only let him out ‘cos they need access to his money, not because he was innocent.”

That was true enough.

Harry remembers being in the front row of Draco Malfoy’s trial. The prosecutors had tried the Malfoys separately. “Lucius Malfoy is so slippery that he’ll get all of them out if they let him talk enough,” Kingsley had said. “This way he won’t be able to wiggle out of it.”

And sure enough, Lucius had received a life sentence.

Harry had fully intended to testify at Malfoy’s trial, having done so at his mother’s to support her plea. The prosecutors had also clearly expected the younger Malfoy to do some squirming of his own, with the pile of parchment they had at the ready on their table during the trial.

But Harry had watched as he was led in, no attorney to defend him, and as a long list of crimes was read out. Some of those charges were exaggerated, but none outright false. But in the post-war political climate it's unlikely that they won't stick, and the prosecution had looked like they knew it, with their shark-like grins.

He watched as Malfoy made eye contact with everyone in the front row, chin held high and expression unreadable. When the court asked him how he would like to plea, Harry remembers the look in Malfoy’s eyes as he had looked directly into his eyes and said,

“Guilty.”

The room had broken out in a roar after a moment of startled silence. Harry had watched it all with narrowed eyes as Malfoy’s lips quirked in amusement, eyes dark. And at the end of that day, Draco Malfoy had walked out to serve a six-month sentence, somehow managing to look triumphant in chains. 

Six months is nothing especially to those who felt wronged, let alone the three he ended up serving. No amount of good behaviour would let a marked Death Eater walk out of Azkaban after half a sentence in the post-Voldemort world. There would’ve been riots.

That is, there _would_ have been, if so many Malfoy assets hadn’t been entangled in post-war recovery efforts. Kingsley hadn’t been happy about it. No one was. But they all had agreed that “at least it wasn’t Lucius” and cheered a little at the boost in economy that freed up Malfoy money conferred. Apparently even with Narcissa free, Wizarding Britain had felt the effects when Draco Malfoy’s personal assets were frozen.

It had made Hermione absolutely livid, but Ron had been oddly pragmatic about it all.

“Who’s he gonna bother? There’s no Voldemort anymore. He so much as sneezes wrong he’ll go right back, money or no.”

And that was true too. Malfoy will have to do a lot of scrubbing to clean up his family’s reputation with the public. If someone accuses him of some wrongdoing after he’d been released and manages to make it stick, then stinking rich or not, the Minister and the MLE would have to lock him up or risk not being re-elected in the next season. There was no one left powerful enough that was willing to defend him.

And as confident as he had looked in that courtroom, Harry thinks that no one would want to go back to living with dementors after escaping once.

He had looked good though, from the brief glimpse Harry had of him as he passed. He had cut his hair shorter on the sides and the back. Not shaven, like the undercut Ron was sporting nowadays, but shorter than Harry had ever seen it.

He didn’t expect that. After all, with hair too short to cover his neck, you could see where Malfoy’s prisoner identification numbers were tattooed on his nape. For some reason, Harry had thought that he’d want to hide it.

“Oh no. Harry, _no_.”

He turns to Neville, who had spoken. The other boy’s eyes are narrowed, and he shakes his head slowly at him.

“Don’t you dare, Harry.”

“What?” he asks, confused.

“Yeah, what?” asks Seamus. He turns to face Harry as he speaks. “What’s Harry- oh.”

“Seriously, what?”

“Harry get that look off your face right now,” says Seamus now, with a determined look on his face.

“What look?”

“Your I-gotta-show-Malfoy-I-have-the-bigger-cock look.”

“My-, “ Harry drags in a breath, sharply. “ _I don’t have a-“_

“You do!”

“Yeah mate,” says Neville, with a crooked grin. “You totally do. Right, Luna?”

“Hmm? What?”

Truly, at this moment Harry hates all his friends. “They think that there’s something wrong with my face,” he sighs.

Luna giggles and Harry can’t help the smile that comes onto his face when he hears it. She brightens any room she walks in and he counts himself lucky that they’re friends.

“Oh that’s silly. There’s nothing wrong with- Oh.” Her smile falls as she looks at his face. “That’s a problem,” she says, head tilted.

On second thought, Harry thinks he needs better friends.

The other boys roar with laughter, and the last of the tension dissipates with it. They take turns making fun of Harry as he kicks them lightly in retaliation.

But all through their horseplay Harry sees Luna frowning at him from the corner of his eyes. When he turns to ask her if something was wrong with a look, her frown deepens, and she reaches for his hand.

She grips it tightly for the rest of the train ride.

///

There are less first years this year, and they huddle together in the middle of the Great Hall, moving as one to the front where Professor Sprout stands waiting.

They’re all so small. _Merlin_ , Harry thinks. The shortest one, a little boy trying so hard to look like he wasn’t vibrating out of his bones, barely came up to his elbow. Was he ever that tiny?

He shoots a glance at Neville, who looks to be thinking the same thing.

“Adorable little buggers. We’re sure to get the hellions though, aren’t we?”

As if to confirm his assumption, the hat shouts “ _GRYFFINDOR!”_ and a tawny-haired boy trips over himself as he rushes to their table. They can hear him chattering even over the loud cheering from the other end of the table.

Harry chuckles. “Well, at least we won’t have to do any of the wrangling. Poor Ginny.”

None of the eight-year students were involved in any leadership positions this year, having been specifically advised, or forced, by Professor McGonagall to focus on their studies.

It's _Headmistress_ McGonagall now, Harry supposes. It’s odd to look up at the head table and not see Dumbledore with his twinkling eyes. No matter how much he resented the old man’s involvement in his life towards the end of the war, there was no denying that Harry loved him, as complicated as that love was, as one of the first adults who showed him that he _cared_.

Despite his ulterior motives, that still meant something to a young Harry.

Speaking of ulterior motives- “So Slughorn’s Head of Slytherin House this year, then” asks Harry. The man has been trying to catch his eye since he first sat down.

Neville nods. “Good thing he was willing to come out of retirement for it. No one else was.” He jerks his head towards the Slytherin table.

All the tables had been shrunk when the castle saw that there were many less students returning this year, but Harry sees now that the Slytherin table still looked slightly bare even then.

“Most of them transferred to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons,” explains Neville. “Their reputations aren’t as good as Hogwarts' academically, but I’ll bet anything the atmosphere’s a whole lot friendlier.”

Harry can’t help but agree. He’s not blind. He _is_ surprised that none of the students in green ties have spontaneously combusted from the heat of the glares yet.

Malfoy seems like he’s keeping his cool though, wearing a neutral look on his face as he trades comments with Zabini under his breath. But Harry sees his eyes constantly moving, cataloguing exits, scanning over the first years being sorted, and occasionally meeting an acquaintance’s gaze and nodding. He claps politely, the gesture lazy, after every first year’s sorting.

Harry wonders why he came back. The Malfoy he knew before the war was a coward, talking big but shaking all over whenever there was any real danger. This Malfoy seems like an entirely a different person, spine straight and shoulders lowered, gaze carefully bored as people throw him hateful glances with hands on their wands. Looking at him now, Harry can’t help but think that he was being _brave,_ facing all that with no move to retaliate.

As soon as that thought registered, Harry shakes his head. _No_ , he thinks. _That can’t be right._

And then, _he must be up to something._

Harry lets that thought coalesce, as the hat shouts “ _SLYTHERIN!_ ” and everyone hisses with narrowed eyes, as Malfoy claps loudly, pointedly, and stands to usher a brown-haired girl with big blue eyes to sit between him and Zabini on the bench.

 _Yes_ , he thinks. He’ll have to keep an eye on Malfoy.

///

Having said that, Harry finds that his eighth year keeps him too busy to do much more than glance at the Map to figure out Malfoy’s whereabouts. He seems to spend most of his time outside of class either in the dungeons or the library, which was convenient, since Harry finds himself spending more time in the library this year than he ever had in his previous years.

Even then, Harry can’t do as much watching as he wants to, since apparently taking a year off school has detrimental effects on his ability to remember what he learnt in sixth-year. He has to review almost half of sixth year to even understand what his teachers were referring to in the combined eight-year classes. And he can’t watch Malfoy in class because Hermione wanted to know what they were covering, and he can’t take notes for her if he doesn’t pay attention.

Despite all the homework and studying he has to do, something in him seems to settle as he goes through the Hogwarts routine. There are still days where his skin feels paper-thin, but so much is constantly happening around him, so many bits of meaningless gossip and little petty squabbles, so much stuff that doesn’t _matter_. The times when Harry wakes up feeling empty and airy are few and far between.

He still avoids the bathroom mirrors though, ducking his head while he brushes his teeth. And if his hair looks a little more disheveled it's not like anyone really notices.

He even manages to have regular conversations with Ginny without feeling an aching sense of loss beneath his sternum. He didn’t think that they would ever get there, that things would keep being awkward after they broke it off. But they’ve sunk comfortably into a deep friendship that has her slumping against his shoulder after a long day and him stroking her hair in (often mocking) sympathy without being weird about it.

And so it goes, with Harry sneaking glances at Malfoy in between studying. Avoiding his reflection and sending letters off every week to Australia. Sitting by the fire in the common room joking around with his friends, playing chess (even winning a few times with Ron gone). Stoically ignoring the missing holes in the conversation or when things that happened to dead friends are brought up. Also stoically ignoring the vitriol that comes out of people against anyone wearing green robes.

It's not enough. His skin still doesn’t fit him right. He still wakes up in the middle of the night panicking because he can’t hear Ron or Hermione’s breathing in the room. He sits in his armchair in the common room with clenched fists when his friends are away, staring into nothing.

_It’s over. The war is over._

It’s not enough, but he manages. He handles it.

And then, Halloween happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco: *breathes*  
> Harry: He's acting so suspicious  
> Harry: He thinks no one would notice but I DID  
> Harry: I notice EVERYTHING he does.
> 
> Everyone: what  
> Harry: what
> 
> Hello friends! This chapter took a little longer to come out, so I hope you're appeased by a slightly longer chapter this time. I'm so glad you liked Anton, the precious bean! He's a returning character don't worry.
> 
> I hope you liked this one too! The next chapter sees the plot actually progressing ahaha what even is planning. Thank you so much for all of your comments and I hope I hear from you again!


	4. Moonlight Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a good time. Harry does _not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some minor but kinda important edits to the last chapter. Just added a handful of lines to the end bit. I wasn't really happy about it when I posted it the first time. The edit made me feel a bit better. 
> 
> Go ahead and read it first though if you think you need to. It's been a while since updates so you might want to anyway lol (sorry).

Draco spends all of Halloween day practicing his violin playing in between classes. He’s out of practice, but he was in Azkaban for three months. He thinks being in prison is enough of an excuse to not get his hour of practice a day.

Blaise doesn’t think so. He spends Halloween day laughing at Draco whenever he curses at a sour note. But he’d brought back a smuggled platter from the feast after Draco had stayed behind to make some last-minute adjustments to his intonation.

And it pays off. His playing is crisp and haunting, guiding the dancers, both corporeal and ghostly all in white robes, through the proper steps of the ancient ritual, unchanged but for the time and place. The melody of Pansy’s flute flutters high above their heads, a perfect accompaniment to his deeper, darker tones.

He keeps an eye on Anton from his side of the large space, watching him solemnly take his turn around the floor with one of his classmates on his arm. The elves had expanded an unused classroom for their use to accommodate all the people taking part in the ritual. Tiny as he is, Draco had lost sight of Anton several times during the night and only spotted him now on account of his dancing partner’s hair dyed a bright pink.

Any other first year and Draco would have thought that they had run afoul of a prank or a hazing ritual.

But this was Julian Selwyn. The boy had asked Draco for a sterilising charm on the second night of term, holding a needle aloft with the same, vaguely disinterested expression he’d worn when asking for the plate of roast potatoes at dinner.

“What’s it for,” Draco had asked, absently, wand already out.

The boy had shrugged and flicked his fringe out of his face. “To pierce my ears.”

When Draco had given him a long look, he’d rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it in the bathroom, so the blood won’t make a mess.”

It was never clear whether it had been a dare or not. Draco personally would put money on the boy suddenly realising he could do whatever he wanted at Hogwarts, and his elderly and very protective father would only learn of it near Christmas at the earliest. Nevertheless, the next day Julian had been sporting a set of dangling emeralds from both lobes.

Anton’s taste in friends was worrying to be sure.

A flash of black robes draws his eye to the right, and he watches as a girl who looks barely fifteen makes her way over to him on Blaise’s arm with a serene smile.

“Dragon,” she greets, leaning up with a hand on his shoulder to press her cold lips to his cheek. “I have to say that I do not enjoy it when your attention is not on me.”

He smiles at her over the body of his violin. “My lady, do you not enjoy my playing? I practiced so hard for you this year.”

She hums. “Dance with me.” She holds a pale hand out to him imperiously.

He bows and says, “of course,” handing his violin over to Blaise with a nod to Susan Bones across the room, who briefly compensates for his exit with a refrain full of flourishes.

He moves both he and his dance partner effortlessly through the crowd, couples bowing them towards the empty space in the centre of the dance floor. By the time they make it there, his dance partner is taller, a young woman with hair as dark as the space between the stars. She makes a pleased noise at the attention as Draco leads her through the first sequence, the other dancers following along in a slow spiral around them.

The air in the room thickens as the formation blooms and curls. The whole room vibrates in time with the beating of his heart and he can taste the magic on his tongue. Moss and dirt, mushrooms and fallen leaves. Colour starts to leach into the ghosts in the room, their bodies solidifying under the hands of their living partners.

The whole room seems to breathe as one, keeping time with the music as first Draco and his partner takes one step into the air just above the stone floor. The magic carries them up off the ground as they twirl, as if climbing a spiralling staircase. The rest follow them up to dance amongst the glass globes of captured _lumos_ light floating high in the expanded ceiling.

The magic in the air is visible now, covering the whole area in wisps trailing a cold chill. Draco sees his breath fog in front of him and hears the music stutter for a moment. He was going to have to replace the strings of his violin. Samhain was always murder on them. But both Blaise and Susan compensate for the change in temperature and tone smoothly, the sound quickly rising and picking up speed.

“Eyes on me, Dragon.” His partner moves him to face her with a hand on his jaw. “You have only one night with me.”

He moves her through the next spin with extra vigour in apology, hearing her laugh as he draws her back towards him. The smell of moss intensifies as her black robes swirl around her ankles. When she is in his arms again, she is older, the freshness of childhood having left her face entirely. “You carry my heart when you go, my lady,” he says, and is rewarded with another laugh.

“I keep it close to mine,” she replies, drawing close. “For when you join me for an eternity at last.”

He can’t help but shiver. Her eyes at this distance are a void. He could feel them pull him in, urging him to take just one more half-step closer. To sleep. To fall.

He blinks. Swallows hard.

He takes a moment to centre his mind, tugging on the silver thread he had built between his soul and Pansy’s at the start of the ritual, before opening his eyes again. “I find myself hoping that it will be many decades before I can remain by your side,” he says, throat hoarse for a moment.

She laughs again, and she is older, her mirth just barely visible now on the corner of her eyes. “I do too, Dragon. Though you are a wonderful dancer, I would so love to see you meet your destiny.”

He raises an eyebrow as he takes her through a lift. “The fates have plans for me, then?”

“The fates have plans for everyone,” she says. “But yours are quite interesting, even if they’re not… as _dramatic_ as you had hoped as a child.”

He sighs, tired suddenly. “After the drama of the past few years, I would honestly appreciate a few solid decades of peace.”

She chuckles, voice creaking halfway through. Her hair is streaked with white. “My, you _have_ grown, child.”

“We can’t all be going on adventures and saving the world.” He blames the late hour for his candidness. “It’s bad on the knees.”

“You’re right,” she laughs, patting his chest with a wrinkling hand. “You’re not built for it, Dragon. Leave the adventuring to the ones who eat their vegetables.”

Draco groans. She’s been talking to Blaise. Blaise, and possibly his mother. “I was _ten_.”

She hums. “And now you are eighteen summers old. Don’t you think boys your age should stop making a fuss about greens in their meals?”

He takes her through the next spin with a huff, but pulls her in gently as she slows down. He can hear her bones creak now as they dance. She moves like it aches, with her back hunched and her head level with his chest when before they stood almost eye-to-eye. Her hair is completely white where it streams down her back, strands falling out over Draco’s hand as they come to a stop.

It’s almost time.

They lead the descent, Draco scanning the floor for Susan. He finds her waiting while Anthony Goldstein plays her cello for the last refrain. As the rest of the dancers follow, the music softens, dropping into silence when Draco and his partner’s feet touch the floor.

Then they stand. All of them, living and dead. Utterly still.

Waiting.

Until faintly, from somewhere in the narrow distance between the space where they stand and the realm their shadows occupy, they hear the crying of a child.

They all straighten their backs and arrange themselves quickly into a star, following the lines laid out on the dance floor beneath their feet. Draco relinquishes his hold on his partner as she pulls away to hobble to the centre.

With a nod in Draco’s direction, Susan stands in the south point and lifts her arms.

“We, children of the sun, surrender our grief, our sorrows, our losses. We acknowledge the dreamless dark, the big sleep, the space between the stars. We wait for the light to come again.”

Draco moves to the north point, takes a breath and lifts his arms.

“We, children of the night, swallow the bread, the wine, the breath. We acknowledge our pain, our scars, our joys. We welcome the dark so our shadows may shelter the hungry.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before a surge of magic courses through the ground, the lines of the star blazing for a moment. His hair moves with it as if swept by a great wind.

As one, all the dancers begin to hum in tune with the thrum of magic in the air. The harmony rises and picks up in volume, even as a few people, first and second years mostly, fall to their knees with the weight of it. Draco grits his teeth and widens his stance.

He locks eyes with Susan who is sweating, her hair whipping wildly behind her. She nods, and he takes another deep breath.

This part is the trickiest. Both of them will have to act as conduits of the living magic that’s streaming into the ritual system to open a door to the spirit realm. That much power in one body is dangerous. Anything less than perfect control is… not ideal, to say the least.

Good thing both Susan and Draco have the most precise spellwork seen at Hogwarts in decades. Only Hermione Granger could beat them in this.

Not that it’s easy, even then. There’s a reason people mostly use wands to cast. The wands do half the work of channelling the magic to the right place and the effects of overloading a spell are minimised.

But you don’t use wands at these sacred rituals. They predate wands. All the control work has to be done the traditional way, using their bodies and the movement of the stars.

To make things even worse, there’s just so much _more_ magic to channel this year. They hadn’t had the heart to turn anyone who truly wanted to participate away.

If it had only been up to Draco, he would have capped it off once the participants numbered twenty-four, twelve Dark, twelve Light. But Susan had protested, and it was too important to have her as the leader of the Light contingent to force the situation. “A statement of outreach,” as Blaise had put it.

Hufflepuff and Slytherin relations had always been friendly. They two houses were too similar to not get along, really. But after the war reputations had taken a hit and inviting the other houses to take part in a Samhain ritual would go a long way to fix that, at least amongst the purebloods who knows what it means to stand in the same space and breathe in each other’s magic.

It does mean though that instead of twelve each, they’re carrying twenty to face the veil. 

Whatever. Pansy’s anchoring him. He can handle it.

The humming rises in pitch and the participants join hands, living and dead now equally corporeal. The globes of _lumos_ light dissipate as the woman in the centre rises into the air, trailing black smoke. Her creaky laugh drags a shiver down Draco’s spine.

She hovers there as a thousand voices join them, the smell of fresh earth and petrichor rich in the air. She holds out her hands, one to Draco, the other to Susan. They both close their eyes, reach into something that sits between atoms, just underneath the space around them, and _wrench_ it open with a great twist.

The air shatters, the voices ceasing abruptly only to be replaced by the sound of the phantom wisps that swoop through the room from beneath black robes. The woman, the _hag_ , floats at the centre of it all, running spindly fingers lovingly through the trails of black that follows each howling soul.

Draco takes a moment to catch his breath, wiping the sweat off his brow. He scans the room for Anton, finding him helping his pink-haired friend to his feet.

Someone, somewhere, starts playing their cello again and more and more instruments join in. All around him the revellers bow to their dead partners, some bidding them goodbye and others inviting them to dance once more. Draco honestly just wants to sleep for a year.

A glance at Susan tells him that she feels the same.

Still, they’re not quite done yet.

They both move towards the hag, dragging their feet. She stops crooning for a moment to regard them as they sketch deep bows. “You did very well, children,” she croaks. “Very well indeed.”

“Thank you, my lady,” says Susan, looking tired but smiling brightly. “It was an honour.”

“Yes,” she hums. “It was.”

Draco stifles a laugh. “Enjoy the revels, my lady. But I’m afraid that we must take our leave.”

She sighs, the sound like wind across a dead battlefield. “Mortals are so fragile.” She clicks her fingers and two wreaths materialise, one looking almost aflame with its orange and yellow leaves, the other heavy with tiny red berries.

“A token of my favour, for your efforts,” she says, dropping the one made of holly on Draco’s head and the oak on Susan’s. “Until next year, children.”

Draco bows again. “Until next year, Lady Cailleach.”

When he finally falls into his bed down in the dungeons, he dreams of the Great Hunt, hounds barking and howling into the dark night.

///

Harry blinks his eyes open and sees a quarter moon, bright and blinding, hanging low over the Black Lake.

Has it always been that bright?

He blinks again.

He’s in his pyjamas, waist deep in water.

The water is cold. He can feel the gentle waves lapping at his arms where they dangle by his side.

He should be cold. Is he cold?

He checks, moving his legs sluggishly, trying to remember that they’re a part of him. The effort takes him further into the lake and before he fully realises it, the water is at his shoulders.

He tilts his head up to the moon and watches it drip, light leaching out of it to fall somewhere beyond the horizon. The night is dark and quiet. He watches as even the stars dim slightly, as a great wind rustles through the trees.

He watches and listens as a great howling echoes through the air and as the darkness of the lake swallows the light spilled by the Great Hunt.

Somewhere, he hears his name. Someone calling him, trying to be heard over the wind, someone behind him on the sandy bank. For a moment he thinks that he should go see what they want.

But then he notices the whispers underneath. Soft. Familiar.

Somewhere in the space between his heart and his lungs, someone is calling him home.

The part of him that had been clenched tight since the war ended, held even tighter after waking up to the reminder of what it had cost every morning, unfurls to drip out of his mouth. His chest feels light. Hollow.

He feels nothing but relief.

The pain is gone. His crowded table at the library, with all the strained smiles and vacant gazes. The ache in his bones when he wakes up, even on good days. The emptiness of the Great Hall at mealtimes.

And most of all, the evenings in the common room. Sitting by the fire, trying hard not to listen to the words in the bitter calls to action from across the room. Trying harder to not think about how the war never really ended for everyone, how he failed them. How he keeps failing them.

He’s so tired.

He lets it all drip into the water. It’s so easy to ignore that other voice then.

He looks down at his reflection in the light of the moon, sees its hollow eye sockets and how the skin of its face crack and bleed. It smiles.

He blinks, slow, sleepy, wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and sink into the water. To follow the whispers home.

So he does.

He kneels, bones creaking and limbs heavy. The lake water covers him like a shroud. He feels it stir his hair as it closes over his head with barely a ripple.

There’s no pretending in the water, only darkness. It washes him clean and numbs his hurts where he’d been ignoring them. He feels the air leave his body in little bubbles, tickling his cheeks and forehead on their way up.

He follows the pull on his soul to the empty space between one breath and the next. Something in him knows what to do.

The whispering gets louder as he grabs hold of his magic. _Yes, that’s it. Come home, child. You’re so close. Come home. You don’t need to suffer anymore._ He looks up through the water to the moon and braces himself to twist, to _rip_ open a door so he could get to where the whispers called for him. And then –

And then something grabs him by the shoulders, nails digging into his skin through the fabric of his pyjamas, and drags him to the surface.

All at once it’s as if all his nerves wake up. He shouts as his limbs tingle with the sensation, choking on water.

“Harry! Harry!” he manages to hear over the roaring in his ears.

“Luna?” he splutters, catching a glimpse of wet blond hair through his blurry eyes. “What-“ he chokes as he coughs up more water.

“You can’t go, Harry!” She sounds like she’s about to cry. “Hold on to me, please!”

Harry doesn’t understand. She’s still holding his shoulder, isn’t she?

Luna moves her grip over to his hand and tugs him insistently to the shore. He does his best to follow, but his legs feel like they’d fallen asleep. His head feels like it’s been swaddled in cotton wool.

He doesn’t understand. Why does Luna want him out of the lake?

Harry casts a glance over his shoulder at the too-bright moon.

“Harry?”

He turns back to Luna who is gripping his hand so tightly it hurts a little, her sodden hair sticking to her pale face. She looks scared. Why?

“Harry, please come back with me,” she pleads, eyes filling with tears. “Let me help you.”

He feels a tugging sensation deep in his gut and can’t help but look back to the black water.

“Harry, _please_.”

Harry nods, weakly at first, then more decisively. He wraps his free arm around his middle with a shiver. He’s suddenly so cold.

They help each other move through the water. Harry can hear Luna’s breaths hitch as she wipes her eyes, can feel her shake. He feels horrible.

They crash onto their knees in the sand, panting. It’s too cold to stay outdoors while soaked for too long, but when Harry fumbles at his pockets for his wand, he can’t find it. Luna seems too distressed to pull out hers, clinging to his side while she catches her breath between soft sobs. He gives her head a few awkward pats. He hasn’t gotten any better at comforting crying people.

He suddenly wishes that Ron was here. His eyes start stinging. Before he knows it, he’s sitting up to pull Luna into his lap and bury his face into her hair. He’s crying too now, hard, and he feels Luna cry a little harder.

It takes a long time for either of them to decide to loosen their grips on each other. By the time that happens, they’re both trembling more from the cold than their intense emotions. Luna finally pulls out her wand and flicks a drying charm at him first and then herself. She does it all one handed, her left still clutching Harry’s.

They sit there on the sand for a while, listening to the crickets. The moon hovers high in the sky still over the Black Lake, but Harry can’t bring himself to look directly at it. But he also can’t bring himself to look away, keeping it in his peripheral.

“Luna,” he starts, hoarsely. “Why was I in the lake?”

The grip on his hand tightens.

“How did- how did I get here?” he asks. He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding so small, so frightened.

Luna looks at him with her huge silvery eyes and places her cool hand on his cheek. She wears a look on her face that Harry realises is determination. Somehow, that look settles him. He lets his eyelids close when she brings rests her forehead against his.

“I don’t know, Harry. But we’ll find out.”

“How?”

She presses a kiss to his brow and pulls away as she rises to her feet. She holds out her hand. “We’ll need help.” she says, as she hoists him up with more strength than he thought her tiny body could contain. “We need to see a dragon.”

Harry blinks, startled.

“What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Draco** : Anyway, I'm over trying to be best friends with Harry Potter and hold hands as we go on daring adventures.  
>  **The Cailleach** : What's this? Character development?
> 
> Same, Cailleach, same. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long to come out. I got so distracted. I just started Dragon Age: Origins, finished season 1 of the witcher, just started The Untamed. All three has me thoroughly shook. I am so obsessed.
> 
> But look! Plot! Things are happening! Anton's here for like three lines, even. I keep making all these OCs and falling in love god im sorry. Julius just popped up I didn't even plan him. An accidental baby.
> 
> I was so tempted to add an extra thousand or two words to this and make you wait longer but the _contrasts_. I'm a slut for character juxtaposition.
> 
> Edit: 03/04/2020 Changed Julius to Julian and fleshed him out a bit. My pink haired, chaotic son.


	5. Way down we go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Harry and Draco just want to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy I'm alive! 
> 
> Sorry it's been ages. I went overseas on holiday and this chapter was hard omg. I changed Julius' name to Julian in the last chapter because I liked it better, so please don't be confused when it comes up in later chapters.
> 
> Enjoy!

Out of all the strange things that have happened to Harry over his (really quite short, if you think about it) life so far, this night wouldn’t at first seem to rank in the top ten.

 _It sure as fuck feels like the weirdest though_ , Harry thinks, as he’s tugged through the darkened halls of the castle.

And that’s another thing! Why is the castle so quiet? Sure, it’s like, 4 AM. But he would have expected to have been caught by a professor by now, especially since it’s not like he and Luna are putting any effort into being quiet.

He catches a glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye and tenses. A wash of relief falls over him when he sees that it was just a portrait’s occupant shifting to peer out at them. Luna glances back at him and follows his gaze.

“Ah, yes,” she nods. “That’s a good idea.”

She leaves him behind to scan the walls as he splutters, confused, in the middle of the hallway.

Harry watches as she peers into each painting, nodding politely at those still awake, moving quickly as she searches for something specific. She stops completely at one with a plain wooden frame, tilting her head. By the time Harry is back at her side, she’d already lifted a fist to knock gently on the frame.

“Hello? Excuse me, Madame? Hello?”

The figure in the painting startles awake with a flurry of draped cloth. At least Harry thinks it’s supposed to be fabric. The painting is clearly not a masterpiece, the movement of the figure minimally depicted as stark, blurred lines. The colours bleed into each other, looking more like spilled paint than anything else. Harry wishes that he’d taken his glasses along on this adventure.

“Oh dear,” says the figure, a roughly rendered woman with dark hair spilling over her bare shoulder. Harry squints to make out her face as she speaks. “I’m afraid I’m not fit for company at the moment, child. Pray, come back when the light is back.”

Luna clears her throat. “I’m afraid it’s rather important, Madame Fiore.”

“It always is.” The woman sighs. “Very well then. What message would you like delivered in the middle of the night? I will not tolerate any more love poems, for Merlin’s sake. All of you teenagers seem to think yourselves master wordsmiths, the way you carry on.”

Luna nods. “I promise it is very short. Could you please convey my apologies to the Dragon? Please tell him that I was held up by an urgent matter and will be bringing a guest along.”

Flecks of white appear suddenly in the woman’s eyes as they widen in interest. Maybe the artist trying to illustrate a ‘gleam’? Harry wishes whoever it was hadn’t bothered.

“The Dragon?” she says, voice curious. “My, my, he has everyone in the castle talking about him tonight. A promising young man, don’t you think so? Very talented.”

Luna grins, her face bright and luminous again, and something deep in Harry’s shoulders relaxes at the sight. “Yes! He’s a dear friend of mine and very kind.”

“Then it’s best not to keep him waiting, child. Off you go,” she says, flicking her crude hands at them in dismissal. “Your message will be delivered.”

“Thank you, Madame Fiore.” Luna curtsies daintily and reaches a hand into her pocket, drawing it out to tuck a small, white blossom into the corner of the painting. “A token from us, in thanks.”

The woman smiles at them and the expression takes Harry’s breath away. The brushstrokes are careful and gentle here, amateur as they are, lovingly tracing every detail and drawing the eye to the woman’s dimpled cheeks. The varnish of the wooden frame seems to shine a little in the darkened hallway, cradling the woman in a gentle glow like a warm fireplace. Whoever had painted her had loved her smile very much.

“What sweet children you are,” she says, still smiling as she stands to walk out of frame.

Luna waits until her painting is empty before pulling Harry down the halls again.

“We should hurry,” she says. “It’s late, and he won’t wait up for long.”

“ _The_ Dragon, you said. Not _a_ dragon,” says Harry, speeding up a little.

Luna stops suddenly, blinking at him with a puzzled expression. “You thought we were going to find a random dragon? In the middle of the night? In the castle?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s Hogwarts,” he says.

 _And you’re Luna,_ he doesn’t say.

“It’s still rather improbable,” says Luna, shaking her head. “And you can’t just go up to any old dragon to ask for favours. That’s just silly.”

“I suppose,” Harry agrees, slowly. “So this one that we’re going to see, is he a friend?”

Luna nods, smiling widely again. She picks up his arm and tugs him along again, moving faster this time. “He’s very gentle. I was quite surprised when I met him. I’m sure he can help us with your problem, Harry. He’s very clever.”

Harry makes a non-committal sound, something clicking in the back of his mind that he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge. “And he lives in… the dungeons?”

Because that seems to be where Luna was taking him. Harry only ever uses this staircase and hallway to go to Potions.

“Only sometimes.”

 _Oh God_ , thinks Harry. _Please, no_. But there’s really no denying it once Luna takes a turn down a spiralling staircase and into a dimly lit hallway that he vaguely remembers from second year. It looks a lot more run-down than before, but he recognises the stone wall they stop in front of and the stretch of the hallway that leads further down into the dungeons beyond.

“And the rest of the time,” Harry takes in a deep breath, smelling moss and damp. “The rest of the time, does he live in a big manor house with pretentious hedges and peacocks on the lawn.”

“Oh, that’s right! You’ve been there too! Charming house, isn’t it?” chimes Luna.

“Yes,” Harry chokes out. “Cosy place.” 

He’s so busy having his crisis that he doesn’t hear Luna say the password, but the wall in front of them parts along seams he hadn’t noticed, leaving a stone archway.

And then there’s nothing left to do but to step through.

The stone wall slide shuts behind him and Harry thinks belatedly that he should’ve ran when he’d had the chance.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but the room they enter, ( _the Slytherin common room,_ shrieks the part of Harry still capable of registering danger), is almost completely dark and empty.

Only Zabini sits in an armchair in the dark, dressed in white robes for some reason, with his profile dramatically lit up by the warm glow of the fireplace. He looks up at their entrance with narrowed eyes and puts one, regal finger against his mouth in warning. A languid gesture draws their attention to his lap where a small child, also in white, is improbably curled up, asleep.

Somehow, Zabini manages to look more intimidating here, petting the back of a sleeping child soothingly, than half the Death Eaters Harry had ever met.

Too bad Harry had always only had one response to being intimidated. He straightens his spine and cocks his head to meet Zabini’s challenging gaze with his own.

Luna, fearless as always, bounces straight to the other boy to whisper lowly. “Is Draco still awake?”

Zabini shakes his head, eyes reluctantly leaving Harry’s. “He went up an hour ago.”

Luna frowns. “That early? On Samhain?”

“He used a lot of magic tonight,” Zabini sighs. “Well, more than usual, at least.”

“He works too hard.”

“And he’s not likely to stop.” Zabini’s face softens, lips quirking up into a wry smile. “Stubborn little prince he is. Don’t keep him up too long. He’ll have a busy afternoon today.”

Luna nods with a smile. “You take such good care of him.”

Zabini shrugs, the movement more elegant than any Harry could – and would – ever manage in his life. “Someone has to.”

“I’m glad it’s you,” Luna says. With one last smile, she turns to tug Harry down a flight of stairs.

Zabini clears his throat behind them. “Lovegood. Your guest.”

Luna stops.

“I’m trusting you to take responsibility for him.”

Indignance bubbles up in Harry’s chest. He’s responsible for his own actions, no one else is. Before he can say as much, Luna turns to face Zabini, three fingers pressed to her chest.

“I’ll vouch for Harry, don’t worry.”

Zabini hums. “If you’re sure.” He waves them on with an imperious flick of his hand.

That’s twice tonight. Harry is getting really tired of being flicked at.

///

Luna walks in without knocking, and for some reason, it’s that move that just about makes Harry ready to explode.

The thing is- look, Harry knows that Luna and Malfoy are friends. Luna doesn’t mention him often, but when she does, she glows. It’s clear that she’s fond of him _for some reason_. Thinking about Malfoy and Luna interacting in a friendly capacity had made him and the rest of their mutual friends’ heads hurt, so they’d simply ignored it, determined to get on with their own Malfoy-free lives.

But here’s Luna, walking into Malfoy’s poncey room, with its poncey emerald-green, four-poster beds against the left wall, and a _completely_ pretentious dark-wood wardrobe taking up almost the whole of the right one. _And she didn’t even knock._

Harry takes a deep breath.

The bed that sits closer to the door is empty, sheets still done up. Probably Zabini’s. The back wall seems to be made entirely of glass, looking out into what seems to be the middle of the great lake.

(An absent part of Harry thinks that it must get cold in winter here and wonders how Slytherins heat up their rooms.)

They must be pretty deep beneath ground level here, but trickles of moonlight somehow manage to find their way through the water and into the room, lighting it up just enough to see by. Harry shudders, thinking of the over-bright moon hanging over the lake and all that water over his head.

He doesn’t get to linger for long. Luna approaches the far bed and draws the curtains back.

“Dragon. Wake up, Dragon.”

She shifts to sit cross-legged on an empty patch of mattress, leaving Harry standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. From this angle Harry can see a tousled, blond head bury itself underneath a mound of pillows with a groan.

Luna pokes what must be a foot (Malfoy’s foot! Harry’s danger alarm is _screaming_ ) under the blankets. “Dragon, _please_. We need your help.”

Malfoy jerks his foot away. “Come back later,” he snarls, voice rough from sleep. “I damn well _earned_ this.”

“I would if I could,” says Luna earnestly. “But it’s urgent.”

Another groan, sounding more like a scream muffled by the pillows. If he hadn’t almost died barely an hour ago Harry would probably sympathise.

But he had, so instead he clears his throat.

“Malfoy.”

He sees the other boy’s shoulders stiffen at his voice under the blankets, then sag as he sighs in resignation. A pale arm shoots out from beneath the pillows clutching a familiar wand and flicks out a few balls of muted light. Another flick and a pale blue robe clatters its way out of the wardrobe. Another hand snatches it out of the air as Malfoy glares blearily at both him and Luna.

Harry meets his gaze with narrowed eyes, his eyebrow lifted and hip cocked in challenge. It’s mostly habit at this point, and he knows he can’t back it up without his wand or his glasses. But he doesn’t know how else to hold his body here, in Malfoy’s room, looking at his sleep-mussed face as it clears and turns wary.

He keeps it up as Malfoy shrugs on his robe, slowly, wand trained on him the whole time. Something in Harry twitches a little. He doesn’t remember Malfoy ever looking this confident and self-assured. He doesn’t know when it happened or how, but Malfoy looks dangerous here, lounging in his bed. He must have learnt that, sometime in the last year or so when they hadn’t seen each other and were both actively trying to stay away. This Malfoy feels different than the one he knows. Harry feels like he’d woken up a hungry leopard.

 _Or a dragon,_ he thinks.

Malfoy’s lip twitches and despite how infuriating his pointy face is, the part of Harry holding back in caution settles. It’s still Malfoy, and Harry has been fighting and beating Malfoy since he was eleven years old. There are very few things he can say he is more familiar with than being at Malfoy’s wandpoint.

So he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and lifts his chin to Malfoy’s haughty smirk.

Malfoy lifts his wand arm higher.

Luna sighs.

“Dragon,” she says. “There’s something wrong with Harry.”

“Sure there is,” says Malfoy, eyes still on Harry and a sneer on his lips. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

“ _Draco.”_

Something in the way Luna’s voice hardened then turns Malfoy’s head. The loss of his gaze feels like a physical release.

“What is it, _clair de lune_?” Malfoy’s voice is softer than Harry had thought possible, brows furrowed slightly in concern as he ducks to meet Luna’s eyes.

“Look at him.”

Luna’s teeth sink into her lower lip, and her distress visibly has Malfoy tensing. He does as he’s asked and this time his gaze on Harry feels clinical. Harry fights the urge to squirm, suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s still in his pyjamas. He mentally slaps himself as soon as the thought registers. Nothing to be self-conscious about here. Malfoy is still in his sleep-clothes too. They had literally barged in while he was sleeping.

He breaks out of his thoughts as Malfoy shakes his head slowly. “He looks every inch the impulsive dim-wit, like always. But I can’t see like you do, Luna.”

Luna frowns thoughtfully, before suddenly lighting up. “Did you take a hagstone with you to the ritual tonight?”

Malfoy shakes his head again. “But I think I can make it work. Hold on.”

A flick, and something the size of a snitch comes flying out from somewhere behind Harry. Malfoy snatches it out of the air to inspect it.

(The eleven-year-old in Harry wishes it had hit him in the face.)

Malfoy’s other hand gropes at his bedside table and plucks a leaf from an out-of-season Christmas wreath. He burns the leaf with a wordless spell and catches the ashes, smearing it all over what looks to Harry like a plain rock with a hole straight through the middle. He then holds it up for Luna.

“What do you think? Will this do?”

She nods, a smile popping up as easily as a weed on her face. “It’s good. Go on and take a look.”

Malfoy lifts the stone to one eye and peers through it.

Harry stands, bemused, as that one grey eye roves over his figure before focusing onto his face.

After a long moment, Malfoy blinks, then lowers the stone. “Oh,” he says, with an odd expression. “Yes, that does look like a problem.”

“ _What-“_

“Do you know why he’s all… _floaty_ like that?” Luna cuts in, brows furrowed.

“Is it new?” asks Malfoy, looking through the rock again.

Luna shakes her head. “He was looking scooped out on the train, but it got a little better. And then suddenly he was like this.”

“Like wha-“ Harry tries to ask, but is cut off again.

“It _is_ Samhain. He might’ve been… jostled loose for a little bit.” Though even as he said it, Harry sees how Malfoy bites his lip a little, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own reasoning.

“Maybe.” Luna looked down at her lap, wringing her hands.

Malfoy’s eyes cuts a glance at her slumped figure and sighs, drawing himself up. The look on his face this time as he inspects Harry again through the holey rock is the same as the one he wears in a hard Quidditch match, one where he has to outmanoeuvre and manipulate the other seeker to win the game.

That familiar look in this setting stops Harry in his tracks as he’s about to demand answers, and the halted reflex leaves him a little off-balance. Though what part of him isn’t off-balance at this point? So much has happened, and he understands none of it. Maybe he doesn’t _want_ to understand any of it. At this point he just wants to sleep for a few years and wake up when everything starts making sense again. But he’s scared that if he does go to sleep, he’d wake up in the lake again, or in the forbidden forest, or standing over one of his friends with a knife in his hand. He still doesn’t remember how he got into the water.

Some of the mess inside his head must show on his face, because Malfoy’s expression turns from calculating to something that could be interpreted as sympathetic. Possibly. Knowing Malfoy, it’s likely closer to pitying.

Too bad Harry has less of an idea about how to deal with _that_ than Malfoy’s focused face.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, tightly.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “What _isn’t_ wrong with you. But right now? Nothing that isn’t fixable with a little rest and a little magic.”

“Are you sure, Draco?” Luna asks. “It’s not something more serious?”

Malfoy nods. “As sure as I can be right now. I’d need to see what he looks like a few days from now to be _completely_ sure, but I think it’s just a bad case of the usual Halloween drama.”

“Speak English,” Harry growls.

Malfoy sneers, leaning back into his mound of pillows. “I’ll use small words for you, then. Your soul probably got yanked out of your body a bit because it’s Halloween.” He takes one look at Harry’s uncomprehending face and sighs. “On Samhain, or Halloween as most people say, the gap between the Spirit world and the Physical is the thinnest all year. Many spirits take the opportunity to cross over, but the opposite can also happen. People can find parts of themselves crossing over for a bit on Halloween if they’re sensitive to it. For whatever reason you were a bit more sensitive to it this year.”

Malfoy’s mouth purses as he bites back what is sure to have been some choice insults, but he looks away with a hard exhale. “I won’t ask about what’s drawing you closer to the spirit world. I can guess, but it’s really none of my business.” He looks up to catch Harry’s eyes. “This is something you can fix. Do some grounding exercises, use your magic a little less over the next few days, and _voila_! You’ll be your entire, moronic, self again.”

Harry’s brain catches on the way Malfoy’s tongue curls around the French word in that sentence. _Does Malfoy speak French?_ But he slaps the thought away to say, “My soul got _yanked?_ ”

“It may sound alarming, but it’s fixable.” Malfoy shrugs.

“My _soul_ , got pulled? Out of my _body?_ ” He’s not proud of the pitch he hits on that last word.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “By all means, take as much time as you need to process this new and interesting experience. It’s not as if it’s –“ he flicks his wand. “-almost five am, _Merlin_ , and you’re in my room, interrupting my sleep.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Grounding exercises, you said?”

Malfoy nods, chin propped up on a hand. “Just minor rituals to remind your soul of how it fits in your body. Luna knows them if you need someone to teach you and your gaggle of lions can’t help.”

Luna shakes her head. “I know them, but I’m not very good at them.”

She smiles suddenly, and Harry has the feeling that he won’t like what she’s about to say.

He glances at Malfoy who seems to be having the same feeling if the way he narrows his eyes suspiciously at her is any indication.

“Luna _,_ don’t you da-“

“Draco, why don’t _you_ help Harry with the grounding rituals?”

“-and she said it.” Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Clair de lune_ , _ma chérie,_ what could _possibly_ make you think that this is a good idea?”

Huh. So he _does_ speak French. Harry feels as if an entire chapter of his life has been a lie, and also completely confused as to why he would feel that way about Malfoy speaking French. Lots of posh people speak French. It shouldn’t surprise him to hear Malfoy speak a foreign language in general, but for some reason it does.

He shakes the thought out of his head. “Look, you said it won’t get worse?” Malfoy confirms his assumption with a nod. “Then it can wait until after we all get some sleep. We can figure out what’s happening and what to do about it then, but right now we’re all tired and it’s not helping.”

Luna agrees. “We’ll meet up later today after we get some rest. Draco, send us word when you’re free.”

“Might as well,” Malfoy mutters. “I lost sleep for this. Maybe some closure would make this whole debacle worth it.”

He lets loose a wide yawn, running his hand through his blond hair. The floating balls of light flicker a little as Malfoy slumps down into his pillows. “Here,” he says. “Keep this on you.”

Harry catches the rock before he even realises Malfoy had thrown something at him. “Oi,” he says, more out of reflex than anything else.

“That should keep your soul from wandering around while you sleep. Just run it under clean water before you go to bed and keep it against your skin.” Malfoy lets out another yawn, flicking his hand at him. “Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

Harry sneers. “Fuck you too, Malfoy.” But Malfoy had already buried his head back under the pillows, holding his middle finger up at Harry while pulling his covers up from underneath Luna.

Luna gets up to help Malfoy with the covers, tucking him in with a smile. “Thank you, Draco. I’ll count it as a favour.”

What the fuck, Harry thinks.

Malfoy hums, already sounding half asleep. “You better.”

(Later, after Harry washes the stone and carefully tiptoes around his sleeping roommates, he stares up at the bed canopy and says, with feeling, “Luna. And Malfoy. _What the fuck.”_

He lays there, safe in the Gryffindor dorms again, staring at the canopy for a long time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Harry:** What's that face??? I don't know that face?  
>  **Harry:** I thought I knew all of his faces???
> 
>  **Luna:** Bruh
> 
>  **Draco, in this entire chapter:** let me SLEEP you fucks
> 
> Also, if you noticed, I did put a chapter count up there. It's not definitive. I'm optimistic though that it won't reach 20 chapters ahahahaha *cries* this fic keeps getting longer.
> 
> Your comments are a delight, seriously. I read over them when I'm trying to gear up to write and they honestly make my day. Thank you so much and I hope those of you coming back enjoyed this chapter too! <3


	6. After Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone eats a sandwich.
> 
> Harry and Draco both unknowingly laying the groundwork to eat their words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Yes, I am alive, largely unscathed. Sorry for the long hiatus. Lockdown has me struggling, but here's a present in honour of our favourite snake! Happy belated birthday to Draco!
> 
> There may or may not be another, smaller present incoming soon...

Draco blinks, staring at nothing as he sits, still in pyjamas, in the early afternoon light.

“Blaise,” he asks. “Blaise.”

A grunt comes from the other bed.

“Did Potter barge into here in his sleep-clothes last night or was I hallucinating?”

Blaise groans.

“Because it felt like a hallucination. He wasn’t _polite_ , but he-” Draco’s brows furrow. “He didn’t even pull out his wand.”

Blaise lets out a curse, curling up to hide under the covers.

Draco scowls. “Does he not think that I’m a threat to him? That he can just-” he gestures sharply through the air with an arm. “Just barge into our rooms unprotected like he owns the whole damn castle?”

A pillow hits him in the face. “Shut. Up.” Blaise growls. “I thought we were done with this.”

Draco blinks, affronted. “What’s wrong with you.”

“I was up half the morning getting the runts to sleep.” Blaise grumbles, voice muffled. “You owe me one for this. I only got into bed at dawn.”

Draco pauses, turning to face him properly. “Nightmares? I thought they were getting better.”

“Some.” Blaise grunts through the fabric of one of his remaining pillows. “Godwin’s sleeping through the night finally. But the boys are still having trouble.”

“I thought the ritual would have tired them out.”

Blaise hums. “Selwyn was out as soon as he hit a flat surface.”

“Young wizard’s first Samhain dance.” Draco smiles through a sigh. He’d have to watch Julian closely over the week, make sure he wouldn’t over-extend his magical reserves. The other first years too. It takes time to build it back up from a ritual as big as Samhain. They probably hadn’t yet learnt how to feel out the boundaries of their magic yet and would probably ignore the strain.

Come to think of it, He’s not sure if the second years are any better. He’d have to ask Astoria and Pansy to watch out for the signs too.

But the nightmares. Draco swallows down his worry. “He did well though,” he says. “Anton too.”

“Julian and Antonius.” Blaise turns his head slightly to smirk at him with one bleary eye, cheek creased by his pillow. “There’s a joke in there, somewhere.”

Draco snorts. “More like a prophecy waiting to happen, Merlin save us all.”

“I’d drink to that. Heavily.”

A heavy hand knocks at the door before it opens with a slight creak.

“Afternoon, gents.” Greg greets, ducking into the room quickly. He tosses a wrapped package to Draco, who lifts it to his nose for a sniff through the paper. Bacon and egg. Yum.

Greg aims the other one at the centre of Blaise’s back and it hits with a soft thud, rolling off to land on the floor. “Better eat that up before it gets cold.”

“Thanks, Greg.” Draco salutes him with the sandwich before practically inhaling it. He spares a moment to kick Blaise’s sandwich under the bedframe surreptitiously. “How did everyone else fare this morning.”

“Tired, mostly. The mud- _muggleborns,_ ‘pparently got hammered. The ones old enough anyway. Most everyone had their own Halloween parties or stuffed themselves sick at the feast. Not many were up for brekky.”

Draco hums around a mouthful of sandwich. “And the rest?”

“The ones at the Samhain ritual all left by about five? Five-thirty? Most of ‘em stayed around their common rooms if they’re conscious, though Goldstein’s up and about. Bones ‘s still in bed, last I heard.”

“Remind me to send her some chocolates.”

Greg nods. “She’d probably like that.” The ritual was always a little harder on the Light contingent, what with it being so firmly in the Dark time of the year, and if Draco was feeling lethargic this afternoon then Susan is _definitely_ feeling the effects of the magic drain.

“Old Slughorn’s looking for you.” Greg adds.

Draco sighs. “Of course he is.”

“Pansy’s headed him off, but she said you’d better talk to him before dinner.”

“I suppose so.”

“Oh, and Greengrass said she had something to show you too, but that it’ll wait until after you do your letters.”

Over at the other bed, Blaise cackles and tucks his covers more firmly around himself with sharp, little movements. The prick. “Sounds like you’d better get dressed, Malfoy.”

Draco flips him off. “Eat shit.”

Blaise lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, wandlessly summoning his sandwich and pelting it at Draco’s face. “I’d rather watch you do it.”

///

Harry wakes up with the little holey stone clutched tight in one fist and the smell of rain in his nostrils. He doesn’t remember the dream he had been having, but it leaves him tense, jaw aching with how hard he’d gritted his teeth. He releases the breath he’d been subconsciously holding and feels his lungs ache with it as he blinks his crusty eyes open.

“Harry? You right, mate?”

He startles. “Neville? What’s the time?”

“Just past two. Don’t worry, seems like everyone’ll be taking it slow today. We weren’t the only ones partying last night.”

Harry grunts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand while casting a _tempus_ with the other. “What time did you get up?”

“Early. I’ve got a project going down at the greenhouses. Needed to harvest the blooms.”

That explains why he hadn’t been drinking at the Halloween party then, despite practically everyone in Gryffindor house pressing a drink into his hands. Neville had mostly passed them off to Seamus or Harry, both chugging each drink down immediately to raucous cheering with little prompting.

“I’ve got something for your hangover, if you need it.”

“Nah, Nev. Thanks though. I think I’ve slept it off.”

More likely it was the adrenaline rush that came with the whole nearly dying thing (and then taking his life into his own hands by walking right into the Slytherin dorms thing) that sobered him up, but telling Neville that would probably throw him straight into another headache and, more importantly, make Neville very worried.

It may be 2 PM, but it’s still too early to deal with that.

He chats idly with Neville as he pulls himself together for the rest of the day, charming the curtains around Seamus’s bed so they wouldn’t wake him.

The afternoon light seems somehow muted as it streams through the tower window, the air smelling sharp and biting with the promise of a cold night. Harry slips the stone into a pocket, but can’t seem to help touching it occasionally between the little silences in his and Neville’s conversation. It’s warm on his fingertips, even after so long away from the press of his skin, like it somehow soaked up all the heat he radiated as he slept and stored it like a battery.

By all rights, that fact alone should make Harry suspicious about the stone, considering his life-experience. The thought of leaving it behind on his nightstand made him feel slightly anxious, and _that_ was briefly alarming, reminding him of how it felt to carry Slytherin’s locket around. But the stone doesn’t feel… alive, or dark, like the horcruxes did. Other than the hole that runs straight through it, smooth and worn, it looks like any regular beach pebble.

But it’s warm, like it had sat in the summer sun for a full afternoon, and it… hums. Not that Harry hears anything coming from the stone, but when he traces a finger over the smooth surface, he can feel a faint thrum if he concentrates hard.

What did Luna call it? A hagstone?

He bets Hermione would know what the stone does, having read it in passing in some tome that weighs more than she does, but the thought of putting everything that’s happened in a letter makes him ache for some reason. He doesn’t want to bother them with this, with something that’s just his problem, not when Luna was going out of her way to help him already.

He wonders if Hermione is eating wherever she is. She has the habit of forgetting when she’s caught up in something tricky, or losing her appetite entirely when she’s stressed. Ron could usually manage it well with reminders and homemade meals, and he knew that they would take care of each other, wherever they are today on their quest to find Hermione’s parents. But wherever they are isn’t _here_ and Harry worries.

(And maybe he’s a little lonely too, but he’d never admit that to them.)

He follows Neville down to the common room, still thumbing over the stone, and they spend a few hours lounging quietly and playing cards, laughing at the bleary-eyed students who trickle in looking for food and wincing at loud noises. The fireplaces were all lit, with students clustered around all three in an attempt to beat back the cold of the late autumn afternoon. There’s a quiet air around the common rooms today, everyone speaking in hushed tones and huddled close, likely due to how gloomy it looks outside. The light that filters in through the windows is grey with how heavy the clouds hang in the overcast sky.

Harry and his friends had claimed the slightly overstuffed set of armchairs at the back corner of the room from the first night, and for the most part, the other lions don’t bother them when they’re sitting there in an unspoken agreement to give them, Harry especially, some space.

From there both Harry and Neville can see the whole space, having arranged the chairs so that they could cover each other’s blind-spots. When he sits down, he’s suddenly conscious of the textured surface of the upholstery, the faint ink stains on the arms.

His mind abruptly draws a comparison to the Slytherin common rooms, Zabini in his armchair, the dark leather glossy in the firelight. He’d had his eyes on the entrances too.

He fiddles with the stone in his pocket. That was another reason to not tell Ron and Hermione. If they hear that he’d had an encounter with Draco Malfoy and that he _hadn’t even brought his wand along_ , he’d never hear the end of it.

He gets it, he’s reckless. But to be fair, so are pretty much all of his friends and most of the role models in his life, so he doesn’t know what they really expect from him.

Besides, Malfoy hadn’t even done anything? He had mostly looked very grumpy and dishevelled and in dire need of sleep. He hadn’t even been very _mean_ in the way that Harry was familiar with.

But then again, there is very little about the current Malfoy walking the halls of Hogwarts that he is familiar with. His gait, the way he holds his shoulders. His friendship with Luna. Even his pointy face looks different somehow, though all the features are still the same.

The only thing he recognises is the look in his eyes, the same barely contained fury and something all consuming that’s been there since they were both kids. He’d never been able to put a name to it, but that’s what he remembers best when he thinks of Malfoy, what he tries to describe to people who hadn’t met him. He’d never quite gotten it across, though Harry remembers the expression Sirius had when he tried to find the words.

“Sounds like the snake blood runs true, eh?” Sirius had said, with a faraway look in his eyes. “Black, through and through.” There had been something bitter, but wistful in his tone of voice. It had taken a moment to get the conversation back on track.

Still, you didn’t need to understand what Harry saw in Malfoy’s glare to be able follow Harry’s stories of their Hogwarts clashes. ‘Rich Prat’ is a flavour of asshole anyone can relate to.

To be fair, Harry recognises that he holds a lot of responsibility for how combative their relationship had been in the past. Last night, Harry hadn’t had his wand with him, nor tried to pick a fight. But was that all it took to have a near civil interaction with Malfoy? Harry not being immediately antagonistic towards him?

That’s… well at least that’s something Harry can control, even if he can’t bring himself to fully trust Malfoy’s motives in helping him solve whatever is wrong with Harry this time.

It puts him on edge. He can’t trust Malfoy to help him without an agenda of his own, but he can’t guess what it is Malfoy wants either. The whole thing leaves him feeling unbalanced. He hates being on the defensive, having to react instead of taking the initiative.

“Harry? Are you sure you’re ok?”

He turns to Neville who has a concerned look on his face. It’s not full-fledged worry yet, so Harry gives him what’s hopefully a reassuring smile. “Yeah. Just… working through a problem in my head.”

Neville chuckles. “Don’t strain anything.”

Harry nudges him hard with a foot and they devolve into kicking each other for a while.

When they stop, having slid down to the carpet during the tussle, Neville taps him on the knee. “You know I’m here if you need to talk it over, right? I mean, I’m no Hermione or Ron, but I’m here for you.”

Harry’s heart goes soft at the earnest expression on Neville’s face. “Thanks, mate,” he says, voice thick. He takes a moment to clear his throat. “I don’t… I don’t have the words yet, but I’ll tell you if I do.” He’s mostly lying, but the way Neville’s face clears at his words makes him unable to regret it one bit.

At that moment there’s a clattering somewhere near the entrance way and Neville’s eyes dart up. Harry turns his head to see a group of sixth-year boys clamber through the portrait hole with armfuls of wrapped sandwiches. They’re met with muted cheers as they start passing them out.

Harry doesn’t really recognise them all, only vaguely remembering seeing their faces around the castle. Maybe one or two of them were at Quidditch tryouts?

Oh, the blond one he knows. Garret Robinson. His little brother’s a Gryffindor too. Thomas, he thinks. Big for a twelve-year-old, with a habit of slouching to make himself look smaller. But his freckles made him look friendly unlike his older brother who’s built like a bear and does little to hide it.

Maybe he should tell Ginny to try the older one out for beater.

Robinson notices them looking and flashes an easy smile. “Here, Potter. Ham and mustard,” he says, tossing him a sandwich. “Tuna alright with you, Longbottom?”

Neville nods. “It’ll do fine.”

“Thanks,” Harry nods.

Robinson shrugs. “Got plenty. Oh, I think Lovegood was looking for you down by the kitchens. Don’t know where she is now though.”

Harry laughs a little helplessly. “Hope she finds me before she gets distracted by the rain or something. Thanks for the heads up.”

“No problem.”

Harry expects him to turn back to his mates, but Robinson lingers, scrunching his face thoughtfully before drawing closer. “Look, I should probably warn you. I saw one of Malfoy’s snakes sniffing around near here when we went to get the food. The big one, Goyle,” he says, voice lowered. “Don’t know what he was after, but he left quick when he saw us. Bastard shouldn’t be back at Hogwarts in the first place, after what he did, and I doubt he’s up to anything good. You’d better watch your back, Potter.”

Something in the tone of his voice drags a shiver down Harry’s spine, the way Robinson’s eyes turned steely where they were warm and amiable just a moment ago. He nods anyway. “I will, thanks.”

Robinson eyes him for a moment before he returns the nod and retreats to his friends with a wave. 

Neville hums in thought. “Goyle, huh?”

Harry grunts. “Think he’ll be trouble?”

Neville purses his lips. “Not sure. By himself? Nah. But…” Neville eyes him carefully. “Malfoy. Think he’s up to something?”

There’s silence for a long moment as they both take a bite of their sandwiches and chew.

“I guess we’ll find out, one way or another,” Harry says after a swallow.

Neville sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

///

It takes Draco forever to get his schedule cleared up enough, and it’s not until well after dinner that he’s free for that meeting with Luna and Potter. He had sent off a quick message to Luna via Goldstein after the meal before getting started on his homework.

(He would have skipped dinner altogether to get more things done but Blaise would have looked at him with his judgemental face and lectured him about setting a good example for the younger children and Draco _really_ does not want to deal with that.)

He still hasn’t technically finished his letters. But to be fair, he’s been putting off writing this particular one for a while now.

_Father,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, though I’m not sure this letter will, in fact, find you at all since Theo had written to me saying that a few of his seem to have been confiscated. Nevertheless, I think it important to do all I can to keep you abreast of the current state of Malfoy affairs._

_Chambers and son have both accepted our offer of investment in exchange for 10% of the shares. I know that this seems quite low for the sum we are offering to front for them. I believe however that the potential returns in future social capital could be well worth the money. But to be completely forthright with you, I believe that even without significant returns, investing in them would be the right thing to do._

_I know that you and I have differences of opinion in what is right and what is necessary, so I will not ask you whether you agree with this venture or not. I simply ask that you accept this decision as one I will stand by, as with all the decisions I have made in your absence._

Draco pauses and takes a deep breath. The tip of his quill hovers over the parchment as he bites down on his lip.

_I hope that along with whatever trials and tribulations you are facing during your incarceration that you do not needlessly worry yourself over our family affairs. In this, I will not fail you, despite having failed you in-_

No. He’d come to terms with his actions. There would be no more apologies, not to anyone.

He takes another breath and crosses the line out.

_I will not fail you._

_Still, though I am confident in the education you have provided me, it would simply be lovely to hear from you, father._

_Eagerly awaiting a response as ever,_

_Your loving son,_

_Draco Malfoy_

He sighs, setting the parchment aside to mail later before bed. He supposes he could’ve gone with something a little less snide at the end there, but if his father wanted him to be more polite then he could write back and tell Draco off himself.

Lucius had truly had long enough to sulk. Mother was getting worried, and that would _not_ do.

A knock sounds at the door before Draco could work himself into a proper brood.

“Dragon?”

He clears his throat. “Come in, Luna.”

He had asked Pansy for help warding off the entire hallway leading to the cleanest empty classroom he could find for their meeting and then had made sure to get there early to prepare. It’s still about five minutes until the time he’d specified. Luna must still be worried despite their conversation last night.

This morning. Whatever.

Still, Luna being early despite her habit of arriving well after the appointed time is less concerning than the person who followed her into the room, clad in worn jeans and a lumpy jumper the colour of cheap wine.

Are Gryffindors incapable of wearing anything other than red?

Draco sneers. “Potter. I see you left behind the pyjamas today. Though,” he slides his eyes down and up quickly. “I’m not sure if this is an improvement.” He makes sure to inject as much disdain into his voice as possible. It’s a lot. He’d learnt how from his mother. 

“Malfoy,” Potter replies, lip curled as if tasting something horrible. “Still cranky? No nap today?”

Draco’s eyes narrow at how Potter’s hand twitches at his side and- oh, look at that. He brought his wand along this time.

Good. He hates being underestimated.

“Tea?” Draco flicks his own wand and the tea service he had set aside earlier gets to work.

Luna glides over to the seat across from him and, after a moment of dithering, Potter sinks down to the one on his right. “Three sugars, please,” says Luna.

As if Draco could forget. The first time they’d had tea together, he had been delighted that there was someone who wouldn’t be able to judge him for how sweet he has his tea. But now he just winces in sympathy for her teeth.

There are spells to reverse the damage, of course. But they make your entire skull thrum and vibrate for a solid week after. No one would willingly put themselves through that.

“And you, Potter?”

“Milk, one sugar.”

Draco touches his wand subtly where Potter can’t see and sips at his steaming cup, watching Potter take his as it drifts over to him. He keeps watching, supressing a smug smile when Potter splutters and hisses after taking a sip of the suddenly stone-cold tea.

“I suppose you think that’s clever of you, Malfoy.”

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

Potter snarls, looking like he wants nothing more than to lunge out of his chair and rip Draco’s hair out by the handful.

He’s familiar with that look. He seems to inspire it often.

Luna clears her throat pointedly. “ _Thank you_ , for making time for us, Dragon.”

“Not much time, mind you. I have to be back at the common room in less than an hour.” Not strictly the truth, but since Blaise had taken over bedtime duties for Draco last night, Draco should probably cover for him tonight.

“We won’t keep you for long.” Luna sets down her cup onto the saucer hovering just by her elbow. “Harry needs to be taught some grounding exercises to get him through the week. Then I believe you said something last night about another consultation session? A few days from now?”

Draco nods. “It would be best. Another look will allow us to confirm our theories and assess whether the exercises are effective. But I believe we must address something else before we go any further.” He turns towards Potter to look at him with narrowed eyes. “I agreed to these meetings as a favour to a friend. But we, Potter, are not friends.”

“Draco-“

He holds up a hand as Luna starts to protest, eyes still on Potter. “I heard you, Luna. I sat down with Harry Potter, _despite our history_ , for you, and I will show him the base exercises to honour my word. But I will need something more than our friendship to cooperate any further.”

Potter’ shoulders straighten, something shifting in his eyes. Draco thinks idly that this is probably what he’d look like on the battlefield, all fire and focus. “What do you want from me, Malfoy?” His voice is cold, controlled.

It makes the hair on the back of his arms rise.

He does his best to not let it show. “A favour.”

“No,” says Potter immediately. “Not for you. I won’t let you have that much power over me.”

Fair. It was a long shot anyway. “An exchange then.” He decides after a moment. “I teach you something, you do the same for me. Knowledge for knowledge.”

Potter narrows his eyes. “What could you even want to learn from me?”

 _Merlin,_ what couldn’t he? Ministry plans. Auror movements. Hell, _Gringotts escape routes_. Anything that Potter didn’t know he would be well positioned to find out. If Draco makes him swear to an exchange, there’s no telling what information he would be bound to just hand over for Draco to do as he sees fit.

But then Draco thinks of Anton curled up in Blaise’s lap, of Theo’s glazed eyes on Azkaban visits. He thinks of Julian and the way his face turns blank as soon as he steps out of the common room, and the other first years. Andrea with her permanent scowl. Chloe with her huge, brown eyes that dart around whenever there’s a loud noise.

He thinks of Pansy trembling in the dark, gripping his hand so tight he could hear his bones creak, of Greg, of _Vince._

It’s the thought of Vince that makes up his mind.

“The Patronus. Teach me how to cast a solid Patronus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Draco** : guess who's back on their bullshit!!  
>  **Blaise** : yes, hello, i'm here to return a best friend. I still have the receipt and everything.  
>  **Draco** : Blaise, no, Blaise, listen. Why doesn't Potter think I'm scary? I need him to think I'm scary. I need him to feel things for me.  
>  **Blaise** : *flashback* please someone save me
> 
> Please let me know what you think about the characterisation so far, esp the gryffs. The snakes are so easy for me but *clenches fist* the lions, man. What do jocks even say???
> 
> (also if there's someone who could teach me how to indent on ao3 that would be much appreciated because trying to format this was more painful than my entire honours thesis)

**Author's Note:**

> Longer writing isn't my strong suit so if you have any tips, hit me up. But be nice about it, yeah?
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked it! Don't be shy! If you want to leave a comment on every chapter like in the fanfiction days of old I would be absolutely delighted and not at all annoyed, so don't worry.


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